


Hard Luck Story

by dizzzylu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know how the story goes: two attractive strangers meeting in a bar...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard Luck Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilyleia78](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyleia78/gifts).



> Written for [lilyleia78](http://lilyleia78.livejournal.com) as part of [fandomaid](http://fandomaid.livejournal.com)'s Hurricane Sandy relief. Lily gave me several lovely prompts, but the one I went with was _On a solo hunt Dean picks up an odd hitchhiker in a trench coat._ Um, sort of? In any case, I hope you like it! And thanks for bidding on me! ♥

Dean pulls his car into the first half-lit parking lot he finds, fingers already tugging at the knot in his tie. His sleek silver Audi doesn't fit in among the battered pick-up trucks and rusted out jalopys, but he doesn't care, so long as the bar serves its purpose.

It does.

Dean finds something comforting about the uniformity of the average dive bar; Johnny Cash playing from the jukebox, the clatter of billiard balls from a dark corner. A haze of smoke hanging over everybody's head, floor littered with peanut shells and pretzel crumbs. Something about it soothes Dean, especially after a long week spent trying to sell the latest wonder drug to skeptical, arrogant doctors.

He isn't quite up for human interaction just yet, choosing a quiet corner table instead of a spot at the bar. The waitress' name is Daisy; she's cute, young, and smiling, and she winks at Dean as she leaves his beer, bending over farther than necessary to give him a healthy look down her shirt. Dean nods and smiles, but doesn't feel the need to reciprocate further. Her disappointed face does nothing to change his mind.

Dean downs his first beer quickly, in order to kickstart his buzz. Signals Daisy for two more, then settles in for a bit of people watching while the rest of him unwinds.

It's easy to zone out, with his feet kicked up on the chair across the table, the quiet murmur of the crowd lulling him. Nobody bothers him and he doesn't bother them. It's nice, easy. Familiar.

Dean's on beer number five, an empty basket of fries at his elbow, when the door to the bar swings open, drawing Dean's attention. The guy that walks in looks like anybody else in the bar -- thin, plaid button-up, holey jeans, dusty boots, circles under his eyes -- but there's something about him. The way he holds himself, how he strides right up to the bar, like he's a guy on a mission other than to forget about the day's woes. The man draws everyone's attention, but in the end, Dean's gaze is the only one that lasts.

For all that Dean wasn't interested in engaging when he first walked in, he's very interested now, in this strange, messy-haired man. The guy orders a beer, but never drinks from it. Sits in the middle of the crowd, but doesn't talk to anybody. He looks, for all intents and purposes, to be in a similar sort of daze Dean was just in: eyes focused on some point in the distance, thumb tracing the edge of the label on his bottle, but then he looks at Dean, _really_ looks, and Dean feels the weight of it like a kick to the chest.

It only lasts a minute, probably even less, but it's enough to get Dean out of his chair, hand fumbling for his wallet. He flags Daisy down, presses two fifties into her hand and mumbles, "Keep the change." His approach of the bar is slow, though. It's been a few months since Dean tried to pick someone up and his hands are a little clammy at the prospect.

Before Dean can try to shoe-horn his way into the crowd, two people on the guy's left leave. Dean takes their place, leaning in with his forearms on the bar. His shoulder brushes up against the stranger's.

"Nice night," Dean says, then immediately winces. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the guy nod. 

"Kind of warm for November."

"Yeah it is," Dean says, because what else _can_ he say? He rifles through a dozen different options, and decides, "Can I buy you a drink?" is the least lame.

The guy looks up from the bar, finally, his blue eyes wide and dark. "I have one already," he says, tilting his head at the bottle.

Dean flushes and ducks his head. "Right, right." Head cocked to the side, Dean studies tanned forearms and slim fingers. Coarse dark hair and pale blue veins that disappear under rolled-up sleeves. Dean finds himself wanting to touch all that skin, see if it's warm or cool, dry or soft.

He clears his throat instead, waits for his blush to fade, then looks up at the guy, giving him a slow sweep of his lashes. Dean's pleased to see the man's Adam's apple bounce in a long, hard swallow.

"Listen," Dean says, licking his lips. "I'm a little rusty with the whole pick-up thing, so I'll save us both some time and agony. D'you want to get out of here?"

The man studies Dean's face for a long moment. Long enough for Dean to panic about reading the situation wrong. But then the guy says, "I don't even know your name," and Dean has to laugh.

"I'm Dean." He holds out his hand. The one he gets in return is dry and calloused, with a healing gash spanning several knuckles. Blunt fingertips linger on Dean's wrist, over the pulse.

"Cas."

"Cas," Dean says, getting a feel for it on his tongue. "Is that short for something?"

"Yes," Cas replies, but his face is blank; there is no explanation coming. Dean is...okay with that.

"Alrighty then, Cas. Want to get out of here?"

Cas squeezes Dean's hand. "Yes."

: : :

The ride to Dean's hotel is quiet, Cas' attention focused on the blur outside his window, hands folded in his lap. The silence is strange, but not uncomfortable. Even when it lasts through the elevator ride to Dean's fourth floor room. In fact, it seems to amp up the anticipation, sets Dean's blood fizzing.

"Want a drink?" Dean asks, gesturing at the mini bar. In a sudden fit of nerves, his hands fall to his hips and he lets out a shaky breath, watching Cas approach him in careful steps.

"I don't drink, actually," Cas says, gaze flitting from Dean's eyes to his mouth and back again. He reaches up to thumb at the placket of Dean's shirt and arches an eyebrow.

Dean nods and reels Cas closer, slow, with one finger hooked in a belt loop. His eyelids droop and his eyes fall to the slight part in Cas' lips. "So then why'd you order a beer at the bar?" Dean asks, hands settling on Cas' hips.

"Because that's what you do at bars," Cas says, attention focused on each new button he flicks open.

Dean snorts a chuckle, drops his head to watch Cas tug Dean's shirt out of his pants. "Is that why you left with me?"

"No," Cas says, palming Dean's sides. Cas' touch is light, warm through the cotton of his undershirt. The muted drag of his nails over Dean's soft belly makes Dean shiver.

"Good," he murmurs into Cas' mouth. "I wouldn't want this to be a chore for you."

Cas growls, low, and digs his nails in, surging forward to kiss Dean, slick and wicked. He kisses Dean like he knows him, sucking and nipping at Dean's lips, pressing his thumb to the corner of Dean's mouth. The tip of his tongue slips along between Dean's teeth and his upper lip, something nobody ever does, and Dean groans into it, pulling Cas' hips closer.

Dean tries to guide them toward the bed without separating them, but Cas is intent on getting his clothes off and it's a fight to get there; one of Cas' wrists still stuck in his button-down, Dean's undershirt doggedly clinging to his forehead. Dean had been hoping to have skin under his palms by now, but there's another layer to go, a soft, faded AC/DC logo staring him in the face.

He doesn't waste time reaching for the the hem of the shirt, but Cas latches on to Dean's neck, his mouth wet and eager, and it takes a bit of coordination on Dean's park to get Cas naked. Especially now that his hair is all mussed, perfect for grabbing.

And Dean does, sinks his fingers into soft dark hair and pulls Cas up, Cas' tongue following the line of Dean's throat and over his chin to find Dean's mouth. It's distraction enough for Dean to get them on the bed. They land on their sides with a bounce and roll into each other, nudging their hips together. Cas moans at the pressure and Dean is right behind him, fumbling at his belt.

Getting their pants off is a flurry of limbs, but once they're naked, Cas immediately calms and tugs at Dean's hips until he's slotted neatly between Cas' legs. Dean props himself up on his forearms to keep from crushing Cas, but Cas is still eager, mouth slack, hands skimming up and down Dean's back, trying to draw Dean closer.

Dean isn't having it.

His fingers sift through Cas' hair, holding his head still. Cas seems to be in a rush with his restless arms and legs and hips, but Dean wants to take his time. It's been awhile since he's slept with someone. And then it's usually getting to the main event as fast as they can, despite Dean trying to slow things down, take his time, and enjoy himself, to make it good for his partner.

Though Cas is all searching hands and hot, greedy mouth, he calms under Dean's deep, lazy kisses, allowing Dean to learn the topography of Cas' mouth, what _Cas_ likes. He's not shy about letting Dean know, either, rumbling out breathless groans and hard growls. Panting Dean's name as Dean bites and sucks his way down Cas' neck and along his collar bones.

Dean moves lower, Cas writhing underneath him, using teeth and tongue to turn Cas' nipples stiff and wet. His fingers fumble down the ladder of Cas' ribs, a light touch that makes Cas' shiver. He pauses at Cas' waist, his dick a hot, hard line pressed to Dean's chest, and takes a moment to explore taut skin and soft hair, sharp hipbones and well-defined muscle. Dean follows one groove with his nose, then his tongue, stopped too soon by faded boxers.

Dean looks up at Cas, then. Follows the line of Cas' body with his eyes until he sees deep blue glittering back at him, dark and needy. Dean grins, slow. Hooks his fingers in Cas' boxers and slides them down, tucking the waistband underneath Cas' balls; Cas' hips buck.

His cock is hard, flushed red and leaking at the tip, enough to have already smeared a mess all over Cas' belly. Dean eyes the prominent vein, crooked and sticky with precome, and follows the line of it with his tongue. Cas growls deep in his chest, a sound that reverberates into Dean, so Dean does it again, tongue circling the tip.

"I need to see you," Cas snarls, hungry and demanding. His hands fist in Dean's hair tight enough to bring tears to Dean's eyes, but it feels amazing, desperate and reckless, and Dean has to grind into Cas to give himself some relief.

Once he's face-to-face with Cas again, they're kissing, hot and fast and dirty. Cas' tongue is absolutely filthy, fucking into Dean's mouth like Cas belongs there. When he comes up for air, his teeth are sharp on Dean's lip, scraping along the blade of Dean's jaw.

Cas' hands slide down Dean's back, gliding smooth through the sweat to push at Dean's boxers. It's difficult with the way their hips won't stop moving, and Dean ends up swallowing more than a few of Cas' frustrated grunts, but soon his boxers are off far enough for skin on skin, cock against cock. Cas arches into it, pleased, and Dean groans, bracing himself on his forearms for leverage.

They manage to fall into a clumsy rhythm, Cas clinging to Dean with stubborn fingers and blunt nails. Dean keeps knocking his head against Cas' chin as he looks down at their dicks sliding together, sweat-slick and sticky. The need for more has Dean dropping his hips, easing the strain on his arms while letting Cas take more weight. The increased pressure feels good, but it gets even better when Cas hooks his feet around Dean's calves, pulling them even closer.

It's too much too soon; the white hot sparks every time Cas' cock nudges against the head of Dean's. The hot, humid air around them. The short gusts of breath on Dean's shoulder, broken words gasped into his ear. Somehow, Cas gets a hand between them, wrapping tight around their dicks, and Dean falters, throwing off their rhythm.

Dean's fingers fit neatly between Cas', tightening the grip, picking up speed. Cas bites at his own bottom lip, groaning, and suddenly he's coming all over his groin and Dean's hips.

Dean barks out a giddy laugh and latches onto Cas' neck with his teeth, hips fucking into the circle of their fingers. In Dean's ear, Cas mutters dark, demanding words and orgasm blooms white behind Dean's eyes, Cas murmuring filthy words helping to work him through it.

After, they're both too spent to move, despite the mess they've made. Dean feels useless, limp and sated, but Cas has enough sense, at least, to reach out toward the nightstand for the box of kleenex. It's too flimsy to be effective, but it does the job well enough.

"Got anywhere to be?" Dean asks between lazy, languid kisses. Cas' hair damp underneath his fingers.

"No," Cas says, tracing winding patterns between Dean's shoulder blades.

Hiding his smile in the crook of Cas' neck, Dean hooks his ankle around Cas' calf and lets out a long, shaky breath. "Good. Give me an hour and we'll go again. Maybe make it to the lube and condoms in my bag?"

Cas doesn't argue.

: : :

Dean wakes up to the sun edging over the horizon, drenching the hotel room with soft, golden light. He feels heinously gross; sticky and itchy and sore. Not to mention the emphatic throbbing at the base of his skull.

A quick peek outside the window tells Dean he's far more than two storeys high, and he springs up from the room's lone bed, eyes searching for evidence of where he is and how he ended up there. He has to dart for the bathroom instead, his stomach doing a lazy somersault, then another. 

He doesn't recognize the trail of clothes he has to kick through to get there, but that takes a backseat to Dean emptying his stomach into the toilet. After a few minutes of rough dry heaving, the cold tile feels good under his knees and palms, and he wets a washcloth to wipe his face and cool his nape, too. 

Once the room stops spinning, Dean tries putting the pieces together, but his memory is fuzzy. All he can remember is some shitty dive bar in Montana, having a few beers with Cas while Sam hustled pool. Not enough beer to cause a hangover, though, and that's what has Dean confused.

Cas walks into the hotel room, then. Takes one look at Dean leaning up against the shower stall, taking a poor stab at modesty with the washcloth covering his groin, and says, "Leprechauns."

"Fucking _what_?" Dean spits out, wincing at the echo. The headache and puking suddenly make sense: spell hangovers are the _worst_.

"Leprechauns," Cas says again, setting down the coffee and plate of danishes to approach Dean and drop to a crouch in front of him. "Very distant relations to the trickster. More malicious. Small, like faeries. No gold." His hand is steady on Dean's forehead, cool and dry. He wets down another washcloth and uses it to dab at Dean's neck and chest.

"S'what happened?" Dean slurs, lulled by Cas' touch.

"Dropped you into a new life. Made it a living hell. To teach you a lesson."

That helps Dean sober, somewhat, and he stills Cas by looping a hand around his wrist. "What lesson?"

"Only they know." Cas twists out of Dean's grip and leans in close, one hand braced on Dean's shoulder. "Welcome back," he says, kissing the corner of Dean's mouth, soft and quiet.

Dean closes his eyes, taking in the familiar scent of sweat and ozone and gunpowder. "How'd you find me?" he asks around the lump in his throat.

Cas tweaks Dean's earlobe. "Doesn't matter."

"Where's Sam?"

"Waiting for us in the lobby. We split up last night to cover more ground."

Dean lets out a breath. "How'd you do it?" Dean says, getting to his feet with a groan. Cas' fingers are a light pressure on his elbow, warm and grounding.

"You did it. You needed to recognize one of us."

"But if I was made to forget..."

Cas follows Dean out of the bathroom, picking up the scattered clothes along the way. "They only suppressed your memories, Dean. Nobody has the power to take them. Not even when Zachariah turned you into Dean Smith." Cas' eyes track over Dean's body, pleased and a little smug. "Some part of you recognized me, even if you didn't consciously realize it. After that?" Cas shrugs. "The spell wasn't powerful enough to hold back the memories anymore."

Dean pauses then, putting things together in his head, and he sucks in a breath. Before he can ask, Cas is handing him a coffee and saying, "No Dean, you would not have had to sleep with your brother to break the spell."

Dean motions between them. "But we--"

"Because that's the nature of our bond. Your bond with Sam is different." He takes a bite of a danish and chews it carefully. "Your memories would've manifested in another manner, I assure you."

Dean nods, takes a drink of his coffee, and scans the room; at the clothes that aren't his and the bed that looks well-used. "Got any clothes for me?"

Cas motions at a duffle bag on the floor near the door. He gives Dean an up-and-down look. "You might want to shower first, though." 

Dean looks down at himself, at the mess of dried come and lube and bruises all over his torso, and chuckles. "Yeah, okay."

"We'll wait for you downstairs." 

Dean follows Cas to the door, but stops him with a hand on his neck. "Hey, Cas?"

Cas turns, his mouth soft and open. "Yes Dean?"

"Thanks."


End file.
